


Wet Snow

by roakswords



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: GoT, M/M, Public Humiliation, Series 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roakswords/pseuds/roakswords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Craster was clearly not done with Jon after the wet tw*t comment. Jon gives him an opening, so to speak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet Snow

It was colder in Craster’s Keep now. The steady stream of wood provided by the wives had kept the fire roaring throughout the evening. So much so that Craster and the inner circle of Crows had shunted their seats backwards to keep from cooking along with the meat skewered over the fire. 

Now the wives were sleeping under the eaves, the meat was filling the men’s bellies and the fire was slowly dying. The temperature was dipping alarmingly despite all the bodies huddled together under the one roof. 

Still, Mormont and his men made no move back towards the fire. Such a move, uninvited, would attract Craster’s attention. And all those less foolish than Jon, or less important than Mormont, continued to do their utmost to avoid attracting the man’s attention.

What little warmth crossed the beaten earth floor to the first group of men circled around it reached no further. There was no heat at all to be had for the likes of Sam, Jon or Edd who were relegated to the outer circle of Crows. They shivered in the growing darkness by the door. 

A hush had fallen over the proceedings. Craster had tired of insulting Mormont’s every word and Mormont had grown tired of catering to Craster’s whims. 

The Crows waited with baited breath for Craster to announce the evening was at an end. They wanted sleep. Or at least a rest from constantly having to mind their words and actions around the man. 

The hopeful silence stretched on. 

It was in this silence that Jon Snow’s teeth decided to chatter, loudly and uncontrollably. 

Craster laughed. He turned to peer in the direction of the noise and was clearly pleased to find Jon was the source. Several of the assembled men winced on Jon’s behalf. 

Jon wedged his tongue between his teeth in an attempt to still the movement of his jaw and met Craster’s gaze unflinchingly. Damned if he was going to give Craster the satisfaction of seeing him trying to prop his jaw shut with his hands. 

‘Why don’t you come to the fire, bastard?’ Said Craster. His tone was distinctly patronizing. After all, why wouldn’t a man move towards a fire if he was cold? Craster’s smirk seemed to say. 

Jon could see Mormont’s chest swell, the prelude to a deep sigh, and he could also see the look on his face that urged Jon to just get on with it. 

A few of the newer Crows glared jealously at Jon as he picked his way through the maze of legs and fur towards the empty space around the fire at the Keep’s center. More seasoned Crows were cultivating deliberately blank expressions or staring intently at their boots. 

Without waiting for further instruction, Jon eased himself down onto the floor and sat cross-legged alone by the fire in the middle of the circle. Out of the corner of his eye Jon saw Mormont wince at his audacity. Jon stared into the fire, deliberately not looking at Craster. 

Your move, cunt.

Strangely, Craster said nothing. Or at least, nothing to Jon. Instead Craster shot some questions over his head to Mormont regarding the weather conditions of the past month and projections for the future. Mormont dutifully answered. 

Another round of wine was ordered, brought by an obliging, albeit shaking, fledgling Crow. Craster drank deeply and worried all present by offering a seemingly good-humored toast to the success of their ranging. 

The chattering and drinking continued so long around him that Jon allowed himself to relax quietly by the fire. He did however maintain enough self-awareness to not appear outwardly contented by being the only man in the room benefitting from the remaining warmth. 

‘You must be roasting there.’

Jon jumped a little at realizing he was being addressed. 

‘You’d best lose the cloak.’ Craster continued.

The night was cold, and most of the supplies were still outside. Of course Craster wanted him to lose his cloak.

Jon unpinned his cloak with difficulty, the furs had gotten tangled in the metal clasp which hadn’t been undone during the previous week’s journey. Jon was unsurprised when a suggestion to remove his boots followed. 

Jon sat, cloakless and bootless, toes to the fire. He waited for Craster to suddenly demand another barrel of wine or similar from the cart outside. And of course, Jon would be the man to fetch it. He would be sent out to freeze in the snow for Craster’s comfort and amusement and not one of the black-cloaked Crows around him would do a damn thing to stop it. 

Well fuck the bastard, Jon thought. Craster could make him run laps round the Keep in the snow if he wanted. He knew cold. And he knew he could take it. 

The smart option would be to sit patiently, await the order, and make a show of being rendered broken and docile when he returned to the Keep with ice between his toes. 

That would be the smart option. 

Jon made a show of running his shirt sleeve across his forehead as though he were indeed hot to sweat. 

Puffing out his cheeks he lowered his hands to work open the buckles on the leather jerkin he wore over his shirt. He sighed contentedly as he added it to the bundle of discarded cloak and boots. He stretched out lazily to rest back on his hands. 

‘Oh, going to show us the rest of what goes with that pretty face are you?’ Craster laughed. 

A couple of sniggers sounded from the nearby Crows who had little sympathy for Jon and his arrogant bravado. Jon glanced at Mormont. The man’s eyes had gone wide, and his breathing had shallowed. Jon felt a twinge of ridicule for the man at being so in thrall of the puffed up tyrant sitting on his makeshift wooden throne beside him. 

‘Come here, bastard, if you’re so nice and eager.’ Craster said.

Jon set his jaw and rose to his feet. A few steps brought him to stand in front of Craster, a look of stony defiance on his face. He might not have been free to punch the pleased smirk off Craster’s face, but Jon made a mental note to have ‘words’ with the old Crow sat to the right of him that seemed a little too eager for whatever Craster had planned. He resolutely avoided looking left to Mormont.

‘Closer, bastard.’ Said Craster, deliberately pouring the remaining wine in his goblet onto the floor for Jon to step in with his bare feet. 

Jon complied. His knees were almost close enough to touch Craster’s. He could smell the stench of filth and wine coming off the man and made no effort to hide the wrinkling of his nose. He stood firm as Craster’s wizened fingers reached out. 

Craster’s fingers went straight for the lacings of his breeches. 

Involuntarily Jon went to step back. The lacings pulled free in Craster’s grip as he did. Jon mentally cursed the man. Jon could take the humiliation of being singled out and the promise of a cold walk outside to come, but dropping his breeches in a room full of men always swathed in three layers against the cold was a shame too far. Craster would win this round, and the old goat bloody knew it. 

‘I…’ Jon searched for words of supplication in an effort to stall the affront to his dignity.

Craster reached out with a speed that took Jon off-guard and had the men nearest to him briefly reaching for their weapons.

Strong hands fixed themselves round Jon’s waist, tugging him forwards with an iron grip to crush him against Craster’s front. Jon found his chin resting over Craster’s left shoulder, his lean torso pressed against Craster’s paunch and his thighs wedged either side of Craster’s against the rough arms of the chair.

Jon shouted. He tried to push himself free but couldn’t gain any leverage. His arms flailed uselessly, unable to get a grip on the back of the chair concealed behind the bulk of Craster’s back. He felt Craster’s belly rumbling with laughter against his own and the dank wet breath wheezing by his ear. 

‘Why don’t we take a look, eh?’ Craster whispered hoarsely, loudly enough for the assembled men to hear. ‘See what the pretty Crow has between his pretty little legs…?’

Jon felt his shirt bunch in the grip of Craster’s hand while the other hand ran lower. The back of his unlaced breeches slipped down easily as Craster’s fingers found the cleft of his arse and followed it down.

Jon gave a muffled cry against Craster’s shoulder, ending up with a mouthful of foul tasting leather as the cool air smacked his pale backside around the warmth of Craster’s fingers. The confused mumblings of the Crows brought color to his cheeks and Jon was ashamed to realize tears of frustration were pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

‘Soft and smooth as a babies!’ Craster announced. Jon heard a rumble of laughter from the surrounding Crows who were clearly unwilling to contradict the man in the cause of keeping a roof over their heads that night. 

Craster’s fingers drew the fabric of his breeches down as low as he could, exposing a deep V of curved flesh either side of the dip at its center. Craster’s fingers ran up and down the cleft of Jon’s arse, their tips briefly catching on the pucker of flesh around his hole before continuing onwards. Jon cried out again, arms tense but still useless. He tried to pull himself back with the strength of his stomach. But the fist pressed against the small of his back was unyielding. 

‘Now let’s see about this twat of yours.’ Craster mumbled into his ear. 

‘No!’ Craster gave Jon just enough leverage to pull away so that he was left bent almost double over the chair, legs planted on the floor, with Craster’s finger buried deep in his arse. 

‘Ah!’ Jon shouted, wincing and squeezing painfully, bare backside presented to the circle of men as Craster pushed his finger up to the knuckle. Craster shifted the grip of his free hand to keep Jon’s shoulders fixed where they were, preventing him from moving any way that wasn’t either towards his chest or back onto the insistent finger. 

‘And a nice soft twat it is too.’ Craster called out. ‘Anyone had it?’ There was no answer. His finger slid slowly back and forth, tugging the hole open as it withdrew. ‘You mean to tell me…’ He said to the assembled men. ‘…that not one of you has had a go at what’s between this one’s pretty little legs?’ 

Jon realized that no one had spoken out for him. No one was deigning to intervene. Not even Mormont. His muscles went slack. 

‘That’s it!’ Craster said triumphantly, pushing the neighboring finger in along with the first. Jon felt himself painfully stretched. ‘That’s it, let it in, bastard.’   
Craster continued the slow in-out of his fingers, disregarding Jon’s weak struggles.

Jon was crying freely now. And he could no longer blame manly frustration. 

‘You all make sure you get a good look.’ Jon could hear the grin in Craster’s words. He squeezed his eyes shut as his back began to shake. ‘Get a good look.’

Jon’s could visualise precisely what the men were currently seeing and it turned his stomach. And no one was saying a goddamned thing. 

‘Up you get.’ The fingers withdrew. Craster’s hand gave a sharp slap to his rear and came to rest, squeezing his arse-cheek. It took a moment for Jon to understand Craster meant him to stand up. 

He complied slowly. He kept his chin lowered in an effort to mask his tears with his hair. No such luck, of course. Craster reached up to brush his hair back, caressing the side of his face with a deeply calloused palm. ‘Ah, he’s crying.’ He announced. A floury of unkind laughter followed. ‘It’s alright.’ Craster said mockingly. ‘It’s a common thing for maidens.’ He gripped Jon’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes even as his hair fell back across his face. ‘And you are a little maiden, aren’t you?’ Craster’s grip on his chin forced his head into an exaggerated nod. 

Jon’s breeches, which had clung on grimly against the sweat of his inner thighs, began to work their way loose. Jon stood motionless as Craster reached to yank them down. He stepped meekly out of them when Craster tugged on his bare leg to instruct him to do so. 

No one was saying anything. Why was no one saying anything? That thought, more than anything else, had fresh tears running down Jon’s face as he watched Craster shifting in his chair. He worked hard to block out the view of the nearby Crows, glad the others further round the circle could not see the tears on his face. 

‘Turn round.’ Said Craster, as though reading his mind.

Jon hesitated, looking to Craster, pleading wordlessly with the man. He couldn’t bring himself to beg openly. 

‘Turn round.’ Craster said again. He spoke firmly, with warning. 

Jon turned, directing his eyes to the roof, trying to ignore the shadows of bodies peering down at him from above. 

‘Bend.’ Came the command. 

Jon heard a belt buckle jangle open behind him. 

‘Please…’ Said Jon to the rafters. 

Strong hands gripped his bare hip bones beneath the hem of his shirt and pulled him backwards. His backside met leather and flesh. The move caught him off balance. He found himself bent forwards, arse to Craster, eyeline at the height of the shoulders of the men around him. 

He blinked away the hair in his eyes, unable to avoid looking at the men around him. They regarded his piteous wet-eye expression, some with pity, others with amusement, others with no emotion at all save a curiosity that sickened him. 

‘There’s a good lass.’ 

Jon’s backside was guided to where Craster wanted it. He gave a dry retch as he felt Craster’s hand between his arse-cheeks, guiding his half-hard cock into Jon’s hole. 

‘No, please!’ He pleaded. His red-face in full view of the surrounding men as Craster sunk in. ‘Ah!’

Jon hung his head, held up by Craster’s grip alone. The man began to bounce him back and forth against his lap. 

He couldn’t scream. Gods he wanted to though.   
The worst part was the noise. A squelching and thwapping in the silence broken only by the pops of the fire. 

And no one was saying a thing. 

Craster pulled him in tight, bruising, painful, rushing towards his release. Jon’s limp body moved as directed, his head bobbing like a rag doll, his bare skin rubbed raw against the leather of Craster’s trousers. 

He felt Craster coat his insides. A moment later he was pushed unceremoniously forwards to fall onto his hands and knees on the floor. 

‘That’s it…’ Craster drawled from above him. ‘…show everyone that twat of yours. Good and wet.’ 

He crawled forwards a short way on his hands and knees before collapsing down with his face in his hands. There was nowhere to go to hide himself. 

‘Go on. Go then.’ Jon realized dimly that Craster wasn’t talking to him. ‘Have the little girl earn his place in your group.’

There was a rustling behind him. Someone, Jon didn’t care to know who, was positioning themselves behind him.

‘No.’ Jon managed to get out before he felt rough hands spreading his cheeks. 

The man’s cock pushed into him without preamble and Jon was reduced to gargled grunts as his face was pushed repeatedly against the earthen floor. 

Jon could see boots. He could hear jeers. Eventually he felt the man behind him tense and slacken against his backside. 

He stayed where he was as the softened member pulled out. 

He heard the man move away. 

An uneasy silence followed. Jon cried into the floor. 

‘Up.’ This time Craster was talking to him. ‘Sit up, bastard.’

With difficulty, Jon pushed with his arms to bring himself up to sit on his heels. He was conscious of the wetness leaking down the backs of his thighs and the sound of his haggard breath on the air.

‘Let’s see if he’s got a nice pair of tits to go with that twat, eh?’ Said Craster.

There was a brief pause. Several of the nearby men exchanged nervous glances before one darted forward from his seat. Jon flinched back as the man took hold of the front of his shirt. The man wrenched it open, sending buttons flying across the dirt, and tugged it down to bare Jon’s shoulders before moving quickly back into his seat. Jon was past the ability to be thankful for the apologetic look the unfamiliar Crow shot him as he did so.

Jon brought his arms, still in his shirt sleeves, up meekly across his chest. He couldn’t help it. 

‘Why yes he does.’ Craster laughed. 

Nervous laughter sounded from around the circle. The Crows were less bold now with Jon’s head up to face them. 

‘Anyone else?’ Craster said. 

The men looked to one another hesitantly. Most looked over Jon’s head to Mormont. Jon turned to look too. 

Mormont’s expression was solemn and disengaged. 

‘Come on.’ Craster said. ‘I know your lot don’t get much chance at a good bit of softness.’ He grinned. ‘And here it is, all ready for you.’

A Crow got up. This one Jon knew. Karl, an insect of a man that Jon had always detested. Jon withdrew into himself, sure the man who exuded menace from every pore meant to hurt him gravely. 

Karl didn’t look him in the eye as he positioned him. He pushed Jon onto his back, hands above his head, legs high over his shoulders. 

It hurt more like that. But what hurt more were Karl’s closed eyes. The fact that the hands exploring Jon’s lean stomach then his forehead and tangled in his curly hair carefully avoided any part of him that betrayed him as a man. Karl was taking him as a girl. And the round softness of his arse, his hairless stomach and his long hair were allowing Karl to live that fantasy to the utmost. 

Jon cursed his body. Cursed his skin, cursed the curve above his hip bone that allowed Karl to slide his hand against a convincing ‘waist’, cursed the curls of his hair that Karl bent forward to inhale as he reached climax. 

Jon sobbed, lying open on the floor. 

Craster seemed satisfied. 

And he deliberately declined to offer Jon to anyone else. Not by way of mercy, Jon understood, but so that Jon might not know who else would have taken him up on it. To leave Jon to wonder, over the coming months in the cold, when he was forced to huddle close to the other Crows for warmth. 

Craster ordered them all to bed and took his leave.   
Slowly the circle of Crows disbanded. Jon was left alone as the men retreated into the dark recesses of the hall, pulling their furs around them. 

It was sometime later, long since the mumblings of the men had given way to sleepy snores, that Jon realized he was not alone by the embers of the fire. He jerked in a panic, sitting up on his painful backside. He relaxed when he recognized Sam’s wide familiar figure. But he still hugged his bare knees to his chest, shrinking into himself, rubbing at his eyes. 

‘Sssshhh…’ Sam urged him. He walked to retrieve Jon’s breeches from the crusted wine puddle by Craster’s empty chair. He held them to the embers of the fire, drying them as best he could, while Jon shivered beside him.


End file.
